1
Bailey
The first time I caught Derek cheating, I held a steak knife in my hand and told him I’d cut his balls off if he ever did it again. I wasn’t actually going to do it—I cry when I step on snails—but I wanted him to understand how badly he’d broken me.
I should’ve followed through. Because then he wouldn’t have had anything to sink into Gabrielle tonight, and I wouldn’t be standing here, watching the sequel.
Derek’s eyes go wide the second he sees me in the doorway.
“Bailey—”
“Don’t.” My voice is eerily calm. “Don’t say my name. Don’t move. And don’t breathe too loud.”
He’s half-naked, pajama pants around his knees, and his dick—traitorous little decision-maker—finally goes soft.
Good.
Twenty minutes ago, I woke up in his bed, reached across cold sheets, and went looking for him. I thought he was in the kitchen. Instead, he was in the dining room, balls-deep inside his engaged next-door neighbor, her ass propped right where we’d eaten dinner three hours earlier.
Her moans are still ringing in my ears.
“It’s not what it looks like—”
“It looked like you were fucking your neighbor,” I say, stepping closer. “On the table. Doggy style. While your girlfriend was asleep upstairs.”
His hands lift in a placating gesture, like I’m a feral animal instead of his girlfriend of two years.
Ex-girlfriend.
“Baby, please, I can explain—”
“Oh, really?” Another step. He backs into the table. “Because I’d love to hear how your dick justfound itselfinside someone else. Must’ve been a shock. Isn’t gravity wild these days?”
“We were drunk—”
“You don’t drink.”
“She came over and we were talking—”
“Her panties were around her ankle, Derek. Did someone rearrange her holes?”
His Adam’s apple bobs. “You’re being crazy—”
The word detonates something inside my chest.
“Crazy?” I laugh, sharp and brittle. “I’m beingreasonable, you son of a bitch. I haven’t even keyed your car.”
Yet,a voice in my head whispers.
“I’m simply informing you—” I eye the pathetic bulge in his bunched pants, “—that if you ever come near me again, I will cut off the part of you that clearly makes all your decisions. I mean it.”
He goes pale. “You’re insane—”
“I’m done. Lysol your fucking dining table.”
I turn on my heel and walk upstairs before he can say anything else.
My dress from last night hangs over his desk chair—the one I wore when we were out celebrating my interview just hours ago.
